


Welcome To Whitechapel

by Fairclough



Series: Ripper(Who)Lock [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Ripper Street, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sherlock, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Gen, Historical, John Watson Has Had Enough Of Sherlock's Shit, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slight Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Victorian Whitechapel is a Dangerous Place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-06 20:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13418820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairclough/pseuds/Fairclough
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes and John Watson met The Doctor and Abigail Wells, they had no idea the case they were working on would lead them into the past. After an encounter with a Weeping Angel, Sherlock, John, and Abby are separated from The Doctor and sent back to Victorian Whitechapel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ronique for the help and support!
> 
> This story is the precursor to "Happy New Year, Mr. Reid" - it reveals how Abigail first arrived in Whitechapel, and how she and Edmund first met.
> 
> Rated M for sweary language.

She hardly felt it. It was the slightest touch upon her shoulder. But that was all it took.

The air whooshed around her, as if she were standing too close to the tracks when the subway train pulled in. It moved her hair, her clothes, made her eyes squeeze shut, shoved the air out of her lungs. There was no pain, and it happened too fast to feel any panic. As she was swept away, she heard the Doctor's voice, faint and far off, "Abby! Noooo...."

It was over in an instant. Her feet hit slick ground, and she gasped for air as if she had been drowning. She opened her eyes, reeling, struggling to focus. The smell was noxious: horse manure, smoke, raw sewage, and damp earth.

“Fuck. Ugh!” She gagged, clamping her hand over her mouth and nose.

A frantic voice came from behind her. "Abby? Abby! It's you! Thank Christ..."

There were hands on her now, turning her around and pulling her into an embrace. It was John Watson. She wasn't alone. She clung to him and buried her face into his shoulder. His woolen jacket was warm and soft and safe.

"John, you’re here," she whispered, relieved. Tears were burning her eyes. She blinked a few times and her vision cleared. It was night. In front of her was a dirty brick wall covered with worn playbills and advertisements. Long strips of yellow gaslight bled in from the nearby streetlamp. She pulled back a bit, keeping her hands on John as she studied their surroundings. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure. In an alley, for certain. London, still... I think? Going by the people I heard talking, definitely British. Saw a carriage, with horses. And people in old-timey clothes. I was too shit scared to go exploring by myself."

They heard a disgusted grunt, then coughing, then more grunting: "What in the hell is that hideous stench?"

John exhaled in relief and stepped forward. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock Holmes stumbled forth out of the darkness towards them. He was shaky. "John! Abigail." He reached for their outstretched hands to steady himself.

The three stayed holding tightly to each other. Abby squeezed Sherlock's hand, bringing his attention to her. "The Doctor?" she asked. "Did he get away? What happened?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know what happened to him. It got John, then it got you. We saw it. I told the Doctor to run, to get back to the TARDIS. I only took my eyes off of the Angel for a second. And then I was here." He scanned the area around them, his eyes darting back and forth, making mental note of every detail. "Where is here? Where did we end up?"

"London?" John replied. "Victorian times is my guess, judging by the gas lamps, the horse drawn carriages -"

"And the smell," Sherlock said. He broke the handholds on him and strode confidently to the end of the alley, straight out into the street.

John scurried after him, Abby close behind. He stopped short of the sidewalk and held back in the shadows. "Damnit Sherlock," he hissed, "get back here before someone sees you! We have to be careful."

Abby watched Sherlock as he surveyed, first to the left then to the right, picking up every detail. He took another step further out into the street and turned back to examine the alley entrance. There was a street sign on the wall above him.

“Chicksand Street…. Chicksand Street…” he muttered, before wandering off down the road.

“Shit,” John sighed, following after him. Abby was left with no choice but to do the same. She and John kept against the darkened brick buildings while Sherlock felt free to wander down the middle of the deserted street, gawking at everything around him like some naive tourist.

They closed in on an intersection and Sherlock came to a sudden stop, peering up at the street signage again. The clip-clop of hooves approached, a lone horse towing a rickety carriage, but Sherlock paid it no mind. He continued to stare up, first at the sign, then behind him to the looming steeple of a nearby church. Sign. Steeple. The carriage was bearing down. John rushed out into the road and grabbed Sherlock by the coat sleeve, dragging him back to the safety of the sidewalk just as the carriage trundled by at speed, sending a spray of water and muck over them.

John pushed Sherlock up against the shutters of the closest building, his hands tight on the lapels of Sherlock’s overcoat. “Jesus Christ, watch yourself! What the hell are you thinking?” With each word John shook Sherlock back and forth to snap him back into focus.

Startled, Sherlock pushed John’s hands off and smoothed down his coat collar to collect himself. With his composure restored, he stood straight, pointing at the nearby church. “That,” he said, “is Christ Church Spitalfields.” He pointed next to the street sign. “Brick Lane.” Took a few steps back in the direction that had come from and pointed again. “Chicksand Street. We are in Whitechapel.”

Abby gasped. “Oh my god, no. No, no, we do not want to be in Victorian Whitechapel.”

“And yet, it appears we are,” Sherlock said. “No choice in the matter.”

Abby glanced over at John. He was distraught, taking deep breaths to calm himself. She looked down at the messenger bag slung across her chest. Her hands were clamped on the strap so tight her knuckles were white.

John let out a long, slow exhale. “So, what do we do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes continued to dart back and forth as he chewed at his lower lip, deep in thought. “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You? I thought you knew everything?” John scoffed. He balled his hands into fists, his ‘fight’ response activated. He was ready to punch something. Sherlock, most likely.

“Well I’m terribly sorry, John. I’ve never been sent backwards through time before.” Sherlock inhaled sharply and pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Shut up. Let me think.”

Abby slumped back against the wall, defeated “We are so fucked.”

“No, Abigail, we are not,” Sherlock said. His voice was calm and steady. “We have the advantage. We have the knowledge of history. We can survive with -”

Sherlock’s inspirational monologue was interrupted by a commotion nearby. A woman screamed. A man bellowing: “Murder! Murder! A woman slain! It is The Ripper come again! Murder! Send for the Blues!”

The Ripper. Hearing the words spoken chilled Abby to the bone. Sherlock’s reaction, however, was the complete opposite.

“Jack the Ripper,” he whispered, almost reverent. “The greatest unsolved case. Could it…. Could I…?” A strange smile spread across his face.

“No, Sherlock! No, don’t you dare!” John stared at his friend in disbelief, shaking his head.

A brief look was exchanged between them before Sherlock ran off in the direction of the excitement. Abby and John were left standing on the sidewalk, staring after him.

“Oh, this is bad,” John said, “this is very very bad.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby, John, and Sherlock turn up at a murder scene, but Sherlock is less than impressed. H Division's finest begin to arrive for their own investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Throwing this one out into the wild un-betaed, so please let me know of any egregious errors! ~
> 
> Thanks for reading, and showing support! <3

John and Abigail rushed after Sherlock, his long coat and scarf billowing out behind him as he ran. A few steps ahead Sherlock mumbled to himself. “Brick Lane, headed north. North. Mary Jane Kelly? No, that’s too far west. North. Hanbury Street. Annie Chapman? The second victim. Doesn’t make sense.” 

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Stop.” John begged.

Sherlock slowed his pace and swung around to face his friend. “Don’t deny me this, John. Jack the Ripper. Jack. The. Ripper. I’m not passing this up.”

“I’m not asking you too. But we need to be careful. And more important, inconspicuous. We need a plan.”

“Alright, fine. Here it is. I’m going to check out this crime scene. You and Abby are welcome to join me, or you can skulk about here in the shadows and wait until I’m done. But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want a peek?”

“No,” Abby said, despondent. “I want to go home.” She tried to be strong and resilient, braver in the face of this. But she was close to breaking down. All she could think of was home, of safety and comfort, of her sister, her brother, her cat. She worried she might never see them again.

“The Doctor could be searching for us,” John said. “Maybe we should go back to the alley where we came in.”

“You go right ahead,” Sherlock replied, “I’ll catch up with you when I’m finished.”

“No. We stay together.” John was adamant. “You don’t get to run off alone and half-cocked like you usually do. Not now.” He sighed and shook his head. It was obvious Sherlock would not be deterred. “So we go, all of us. You have your look. But make it quick. Then we get somewhere safe. Is that okay with you, Abby?”

It wasn’t. But she didn’t have the mental energy to argue. She nodded, a feeble gesture.

They continued on and reached the scene of the commotion. They saw a crowd of gawkers gathered at the entrance to a narrow laneway. A rotund gentleman in a shabby top hat stood ground facing them, his arms spread wide to hold the swarm of people back. “Move! Stay back, you vultures! The police have been alerted. We must keep the way clear for them.”

“Is it him?” a disheveled woman cried. “Is it Jack returned? Pray God, no!”

The crowd surged forward and the man braced his arms against the alley walls, struggling to keep them at bay. “That is for the police to know, madam. Please stay back, everyone.” One man pressed in, craning his neck for a glimpse of the crime scene beyond. The gatekeeper thrust his shoulder out to block him. “I beg you, sir, please.”

Sherlock pushed himself through the crowd until he was face to face with the man in the top hat. Abby and John snaked their way through as well, trying to keep up with Sherlock. They were shoved and jostled, but in this mob of people otherwise disregarded. Still, Abby pulled her sweater close against her body to avoid unwanted attention from anyone who might see her modern clothes.

Sherlock stood tall over the man on guard. “Thank you, sir, if you’d please let me through so I may have a look?” 

“With the police, are you?”

“Yes, yes I am,” Sherlock lied. “Detective Inspector with… uh… H Division?” He glanced back towards John and shrugged. 

Sherlock’s long coat and authoritative demeanor seemed enough to convince the man that he was as he claimed without any further proof. He allowed Sherlock to slip past him into the alley, sending the crowd into a clamor. Abby was tossed about as men tried to push their way past, but she squared herself and elbowed them back, giving as good as she got. She ended up pressed up against the brick next to the alley’s entrance. 

John also worked his way back up front next to her. “This is dangerous. These people are going to bust their way through this guy. And probably through Sherlock too.” The inner conflict was readable on his face. This was a man whose instinct and training was to help those in need. But drawing attention to himself at this moment was less than ideal. He hesitated, sighed, then addressed the man about to lose control of the angry mob. “Let me help you, friend. You won’t be able to hold them off by yourself.”

The man looked John up and down with a wary eye. John was not dressed in the current fashion: loose jacket, denim pants, no hat and tie. But the man needed the assistance or he would soon be trampled. He nodded and moved over so John could take position next to him in the entryway. They locked arms and barricaded the narrow opening with their bodies while the crowd continued to throng.

Abby peeked around the corner and observed Sherlock as he began his investigations. He moved towards the dead woman left there in the dim light, his pace slow and measured. He walked all around the body, then stopped and dropped down on one knee at her feet. Next, he pulled a small flashlight from the inside of his coat, turned it on and stuck the handle end into his mouth. Hunching over, he then produced a compact hand lens from his pocket and began poring over every detail of the woman’s body. It fascinated her to watch him work. She kept her eyes locked on him, not daring to glimpse at the blood and gore he examined.

A high-pitched whistle sounded nearby. The police were approaching. 

With time running out, Sherlock moved his attention to the ground around the body, then the walls on either side of her. Abruptly, he stood, shoved the torch and the lens into his coat again, and turned to the crowd with a look of disappointment on his face. “This is not the work of Jack the Ripper. This is just a poorly thought-out, boring old murder. Who was it that said this was the Ripper’s doing? Hmm? Was it you?” He lunged forward and pointed an accusing finger at the large man standing with John.

“Me, sir? No no. T’was some toff in a fancy suit. Screaming to all and sundry that the Ripper had struck again. Took off running when people started a-gathering. That way,” he said, motioning to the left.

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his hand across his forehead in frustration before he unleashed his anger. “Seriously? All these people here and they just let him get away. You realize that man was likely the murderer? Causing a panic, whipping people up into a mob so he could escape? Idiots!” 

John leaned his shoulder into Sherlock’s chest to try to push him back. “Calm down. Leave him be.”

The man was sufficiently cowed by Sherlock’s rage. “I’m … I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. “It’s still a fright, sir, hearing that name. Even after all this time. People remember. No one wants to relive that-”

“What do you mean ‘after all this time?’” Sherlock interrupted. “How long has it been? What year is it?” 

The man’s brow furrowed in deep confusion. “1894, sir. Do you not know this?”

Sherlock stepped back, absorbing this information. He, John, and Abby exchanged looks. Another piece of their puzzle had fallen into place.

Four short, sharp blasts of a whistle came from the back of the crowd as a trio of uniformed constables approached. With their billy clubs out, they pushed their way through to the alley, the tallest of them addressing those gathered there. “Police! Please disperse, ladies and gentlemen. Out of the way. Move along. Davis, Irvine, clear this area, ask after witnesses” He shined his lantern at the three men standing in the archway. “Thank you, gentlemen, for keeping the crime scene clear. Please let us through. The Inspectors will arrive shortly.”

John and the other man stepped out of the way of the constable, but Sherlock remained where he stood. 

“I asked you to move away, sir.” The constable was calm and self-assured, eye to eye with Sherlock in height, and unlikely to take any of his abuse.

Sherlock composed himself and launched into a stream of explanation. “Please, Constable, you’ll want to have a look at this.” He led the officer over to the body and began: “Stab wound to the abdominal area, bled out quickly, I imagine. Most of the blood is on the ground here, so I’d say she was already down when the knife went in. Perhaps a punch or two to subdue her first? You can tell from her gown, her shoes, the baubles in her hair, she’s a woman of some standing. Not from around these parts, so a slum tourist. A lady such as this would have jewelry. Expensive jewelry. So where is it? It’s not on her person.” He leaned over and pointed. “Her earlobes are ripped in a straight downward line, dangling earrings yanked off. See here, on her glove? Pieces of thread, pulled and puckered? A bracelet taken - yoink - snagged on the fabric as it came loose. And these items here on the ground beside her. A handkerchief, a compact, cigarette case. Items a woman would carry in a handbag, strewn about, but the bag itself is missing. Whoever did this wanted it to look like a slash and grab. And to an untrained eye, it would appear to be a robbery gone horribly wrong. But it’s murder, pure and simple. Let me explain-” 

Abby was impressed that Sherlock had managed to take in all these details in the span of a few moments. She glanced over at John. He seemed indifferent and fidgeted in impatience, eager to leave the scene. Sherlock’s deductions were nothing extraordinary for him to witness. But the young constable had an astonished look on his face.

“Wait, wait, sir, please,” the constable said, interrupting Sherlock before he could speak again. “How do you know all of this? Were you a witness to this incident?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “Just simple observation and investigation of the crime scene.”

“Are you a police officer, sir?”

Abby held her breath as Sherlock hesitated. Would he continue the lie? The constable’s collar sign indicated that he was a member of H Division. She doubted he would be convinced that Sherlock was as well. He eyed Sherlock suspiciously from head to toe, no doubt making note of his features and unusual attire.

Sherlock’s choice of action was diversion. He stood tall and clasped his hands behind his back smugly. “What is your name, Constable?”

The officer paused for a moment before answering. “Grace, sir.”

“Well Constable Grace, you have a witness right over there. The gent by the entrance. He caught sight of a well-dressed man fleeing the scene before the police were alerted. Ask him what he saw.” Sherlock turned, gesturing over to where the man in the top hat had stood. 

But the man was gone.

“Damn,” Sherlock swore. “Where did he go?” He went to the sidewalk. People were still milling about despite the other constables’ best efforts to move them along. Sherlock searched through the crowd to no avail. “He’s buggered off.”

“Sir,” Constable Grace said, “May I have your name, please? My inspectors should be here at any moment. I’m sure they will wish to speak with you.”

“No, Grace, listen.” Sherlock was insistent. “The man who was standing guard of the alley when you arrived.” Grace looked over in John’s direction but Sherlock smacked the top of the constable’s helmet to redirect his attention. “No, not him. The other one. Large around the middle. Mutton chops. Worn top hat. A bit under two yards in height. He’s the witness you want. He saw the murderer. Oh! Maybe he was even in on it - a conspirator. Find that man.”

Sherlock scanned the area again for the missing witness. A short distance away, two men were approaching: the first tall and imposing in a long coat and bowler hat, and the second a shorter bulldog of a man with a weary face. Grace motioned towards them, impatient with Sherlock's deflections. “The Inspectors arrive. I would have your name, sir. I bid you stay here.” He reached into his pocket to produce a set of handcuffs.

Sherlock backed away, moving towards Abby and John. “No, I think that’s my cue to leave, Constable. Good luck!” He turned to his companions. “Time to go! Best hurry.” Together, the three of them broke into a run and sprinted away, leaving Constable Grace blowing his whistle and shouting for them to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering how I've messed with the Ripper Street timeline to make this work? The year is 1894, shortly after the Leman Street train disaster. Inspector Drake has re-joined H Division. Captain Jackson has only just tentatively returned to the fold after giving Reid a piece of his mind, but the Buckleys / Mathilda have yet to be discovered. Just go with it. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspectors Reid and Drake arrive at the murder scene to begin their investigation. Constable Grace explains his encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 1894, just shortly after the Leman Street train disaster. Canon has been massaged to have Inspector Drake and Captain Jackson working with Reid once again, but the Buckleys and Mathilda have not yet been discovered.
> 
> This chapter is from Reid's perspective.
> 
> Thanks for reading - feedback always welcome!

Inspectors Reid and Drake arrived on the scene as Constable Grace began to shout. Reid rushed forward and saw three individuals fleeing south down Brick Lane.

“Stop! Stop for the police!” Grace yelled.

“I’m on ‘em, Mr. Reid,” Drake said, beginning pursuit. “Davis, with me!” 

Reid watched Drake and the constable round the corner at Princelet Street and disappear. He turned to Grace. “Report, Grace. Does Inspector Drake trail our suspects?”

“I’m not certain, sir,” Grace replied. “Possibly. Or a witness. One of the men, he said his piece and ran off. Refused to give me his name. I don’t know what to make of him, sir. He was… odd.”

“Odd how? Explain.”

“He was already here when I arrived. At first, I thought him a detective. Had gone over the body like a policeman would, though I don’t think he was. He wasn’t dressed proper. Not shabby, but not to fashion either. But he knew things, Inspector. Saw things only a copper would see.” 

Reid furrowed his brow. Constable Grace was an observant and unflappable sort, and ever reliable. His discomfort made Reid uneasy. “Was the crime scene tampered with in any way?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.” Grace led his inspector to the body of the murdered woman. “He pointed things out to me, but never once touched her far as I could tell. No blood anywhere upon him.”

Reid gave the scene his attention. Always a grim task, this. The woman appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, fair-haired and delicate. She lay with the upper half of her body flat to the ground and her lower half turned to the left with legs bent at the knees. The pool of blood beneath her was beginning to trickle downhill in the crevices between the cobblestones, making its way towards the gutter. He crouched down to inspect the body up close, tilting his head this way and that as he studied her. He reached into his coat pocket to extract his eyeglasses. “Grace, take notes, if you please. I need light down here, Irvine,” he said. Irvine aimed his lantern as requested as Reid slipped on his glasses and leaned in closer. 

“Damage to the earlobes, indicating earrings torn off.” He examined her ashen face and unblinking eyes, then gently pushed down on her swollen lower lip to expose the inside of her mouth. There were several freshly chipped teeth, and deep cuts along the gum line. Blood stained her nose and mouth. “She’s been stuck, hard enough to break teeth. This blood on her face is from the blow.” Reid’s eyes continued down. “Expensive evening dress, quality fabric. Definitely not a local resident.” He moved to her hands next. One arm lay near her face, the other extending out from her body. She wore silk gloves up to her elbows that were spattered, but not soaked, with blood. The glove on the extended arm was snagged close to the wrist. “Something was removed from her wrist, a bracelet or the chain of a handbag, perhaps?” Continuing down to her abdomen, a copious amount of blood drenched the fabric of her gown, from waist to hemline. “A knife wound. It would be an instinctual reaction to reach for the wound and try to stay the flow of blood. But she did not. Her gloves would be saturated if she had. So she was struck in the face first. Teeth shattered, rendered unconscious from it. She falls, is sliced in the gut, valuables taken, and the deed is done.” 

Reid stood, studying at the ground around the body. Three items lay a few steps away. He picked up a handkerchief first, noting smearing across it, red, as if it had been touched with bloody hands. A round cosmetic compact sat beside it. Reid opened it to find the contents crumbled and its mirror cracked, most likely from the impact of hitting the pavement. Next, he took up a cigarette case. It was silver, with an intricate design embossed across the lid, and on the inside was an engraving that read ‘To My Dearest Love. Yours Always, W.’ It appeared valuable but perhaps too identifiable to be worth stealing. In turn, he handed each item to Constable Grace to record as evidence.

“This is brutality,” Reid said sadly, “To beat a woman so and then carve her open for good measure. Most thieves of this quarter, vicious as they may be, would avoid such elaborate slaughter. The blow alone would have been sufficient.” He rested his hands on the lapels of his coat, deep in thought. His well-honed instinct told him something was off. This did not sit well with him. 

“The man that was here, he pointed out many of the same things you did sir,” Grace said. 

Reid was intrigued now. “Is that so? Hmm.” He removed his glasses and placed them back in his inner pocket. “You say there was no blood about him? At all?”

“None that I could see, Inspector.”

“Then very unlikely that he committed this act. This woman is bled out. There would be some sign on him.”

“There were some folk hanging about saying the Ripper had struck again,” Constable Irvine said.

Reid gave the young constable a dour glance. “This is not the work of the Ripper, I assure you.”

Hurried footsteps approached the alley. Inspector Drake and Constable Davis appeared, winded and without the suspects in tow. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Reid,” Drake said, “They got away from us. Been many a year since I’ve given chase thus. I fear I may have overreached myself.” He slumped against the wall to rest and catch his breath.

“Did you get eyes on them at least?” Reid asked.

“Saw only that it was two men, and I believe the third was a woman, going by the length of the hair and the size of her. Except she weren’t dressed such as a lady. Looked like she was wearing britches.”

“What? Disguised as a man, would you say?” 

Drake shrugged. “Could be. But we were never close enough to them to know for certain. We lost sight of them around Spitalfields Market. Whoever they may be, they seem to know the area well enough to hide themselves.” He motioned to Constable Irvine to hand over the bullseye lantern, then moved towards the body. “So? What have we here?”

“This young woman felled by a blow to the face, then knifed through the abdomen. Jewelry appears to be missing to suggest a robbery. We have a bloody handkerchief, a broken mirror, and this...” Reid took the cigarette case from Constable Grace and opened it for Drake, who used the lantern to read the inscription. “Nothing else here to identify her.”

“An awful mess for a street theft,” Drake observed.

“On this we agree, Bennet. Intuition tells me there is more to this.”

“And those three that scarpered? What do we make of them?” Drake moved the beam of the lantern across the stone floor of the alley, and up the adjacent brick walls. 

Both Inspectors studied the surroundings with experienced care as Reid spoke. “Grace had words with one of them, a man who seemed knowledgeable of investigative technique, and who had apparent opportunity to observe the body before we arrived. Whether we may consider him suspect remains to be seen. If we could find him -- “ Reid fell silent and grabbed Drake’s wrist to pull the lantern back to a particular spot. “There. Do you see it? A smear of blood?”

They approached the crescent-shaped splotch situated on the back wall of the alley, waist high and next to a small stack of crates. Reid once again donned his glasses and crouched down to make closer examination. The blood was still wet, and most likely from their victim. It was not spray or spatter, but a more concentrated blot crisscrossed with fine lines and smudged downward. He looked up at Drake. “The murderer’s mark? From a hand, perhaps?”

Drake placed his hand up against the wall, making a size comparison with his own. “Too small and low to be a palm print,” he said, “But what if…” He made a loose fist and hovered its outside edge over the stain. It was a close match. “The side of a bloody hand pressed up against the wall. For why? To steady himself? Say if he were bending over --” Drake aimed the lantern towards the stacked crates.

“To dispose of something,” Reid said, finishing the thought. Drake directed the light, and from his low position, Reid could see the glint of a metal object behind the boxes. He reached into the crevice between the crates and the wall, expecting to find the murder weapon. Instead, he retrieved an elaborately beaded handbag with a silver clasp and chain. The fabric and colour matched the dress of the victim. It was also stained with her blood.

Reid stood and exchanged a quick look with Drake before opening the purse and emptying its contents upon the top of a crate. Within was a matching set of jewelry: a necklace, bracelet, and pair of earrings with bloodied hooks. Also, some coins and paper money of higher denomination than most residents of Whitechapel were accustomed to carrying. The last item was an intricate silver case, with embossing matching the cigarette case found beside the body but smaller in size. Reid opened it to find a number of calling cards printed with the name ‘Miss Charlotte Ashby.’

“So it seems our victim is no longer anonymous,” Reid said, handing one of the cards to Constable Irving. “Back to Leman Street, Constable. Send a wire to all divisions with this woman’s name and description. Someone will surely have reported her missing by morning. And send a Maria to fetch her. I want her before Captain Jackson as soon as possible.”

“Captain Jackson, sir? I thought he was no longer with us?”

“He has only just returned, Irving. And while we have him, we shall make use of his expertise. Now go!”

Drake sifted through the contents of the handbag, and cast a sideways glance towards Reid. “I know it pains you, Mr. Reid. But we are lucky to have him back. No other with his skill, after all.”

Reid acknowledged Drake with a curt nod but said nothing. Rehashing the events that occurred while Drake was absent — the events that led to the bitter split with Jackson — would serve no purpose now. He instead focused on the curious items before him. “We presume these are the articles taken from her body. Thieved and yet… not thieved? Three items removed, the jewelry stashed in their place, the bag hidden. To what end?”

Drake rubbed his chin, baffled. “This makes no sense. It is more trouble to conceal these items than to just make off with them. And even the most incompetent thief could manage to pocket this sum of money, yet it has been left behind. Hundreds of pounds worth of stuff. Could be two, working together. One to do the killing, one to collect the spoils later?”

“No,” Reid said, “This is something else. Something deliberate. The robbery is a distraction from the truth here. I fear this poor lady was specifically brought to these streets to die, in hopes the reputation of Whitechapel would obscure the real motive for it.” Reid turned back to Constable Grace. “This man, the one you spoke to, you would recognize him were you to see him again?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

“Did he say anything else of note?” 

“He said the same thing you did, sir. That it is no robbery, just murder, full stop.”

Reid looked back at the victim. His gut reaction had brought him to the same conclusion. Now he was obligated to prove it true.

“Also, Sir,” Grace continued, “When I arrived, he was stood in the alley entrance with two men. One fled with him. But the other left the scene while we were occupied with the body. I’d seen that one before, he’s a local. Older gent, shabby genteel type. Large ‘round the middle, bushy side whiskers, top hat with a bright blue band. This mystery man seemed to think that he was suspect, or that he had seen the murderer, so as to explain why he snuck off.”

“Mutton chops and a bright blue hat band? Sounds like Howard Holt, once of the Vigilance Committee. They called him the Mayor of Miller’s Court back in the day,” Drake recalled. “Would not surprise me if he did see something. He’s always been a curtain twitcher.”

“Have Mr. Holt rousted and sent to the station house for questioning,” Reid ordered. “And Grace? I want these streets scoured for our mysterious friend. I would very much like to speak with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 'curtain twitcher' is a neighbourhood busy-body.


End file.
